Season 6 - Endeavour - Prequel
by CBGB's
Summary: What experiences shaped Morse's life? This is the prequel. It begins when he is 12 years old and encompasses his years at Oxford, previous loves, and how he became a policeman. I am using references from literature and the bible because Morse can recall chapters/verses from scripture & he was a Greats Man at Oxford. It's does not have a religious affiliation. Thanks!
1. Chapter 1 - Curae leves loquuntur ingent

**Curae leves loquuntur ingentes stupent** \- Slight griefs talk, great ones are speechless.

The colour of the sky does not understand, but the stone does. Flat, grey, without hope, it provides a place to stop, and, some say to rest. People are gathered, dressed in mourning darker than the grey upon which they stare. They bow their heads, with silent whispers of prayers learned in childhood, and feel the sorrow of days to come, but can do nothing. The rumbling of engines mark their departure, one by one, as the sun glows brightly, blinding their way.

"Come, boy. Time to leave."

Beads of sweat roll into the boy's eyes and he blames the sun and weakness for his tears.

"Come."

What if he doesn't move? Would time stop moving forward?

"Boy."

He turns, nods his head, and walks toward the handsome cab.

He feels numb, nothing, yet everything has changed inexorably.


	2. Chapter 2 - Between Scylla & Charybdis

**Caught Between Scylla and Charybdis - Between a rock and a hard place.**

The house is as he remembered, with its broken shutters and crumbling cement. His father pulls up to the curve, turns the key, then all is silent.

Gwen turns to face the back seat and says irritably "Well, come on, boy. Enough faffing about."

She slides out of the front seat, opens the back door roughly, and stares at him, frustration fueling the redness in her cheeks. He stares at the house.

"I'm going in. Too bloody cold by far." Gwen leaves in a huff, the heels of her shoes scraping and catching on the disintegrating walkway, each divot an indication of disregard and apathy.

His father starts the car saying ""I'm quids in on a first starter. Budge up," and he knows he must get out. He pushes himself off the backseat and a muffled thud marks the connection of his feet on the walkway below. He stumbles, straightens and walks toward the house. Standing at the closed door with his hands tucked deep in his pockets, he remembers something his mother said just before she died. "Endeavour, we find ourselves caught between Scylla and Charybdis." He finally knows what she meant as he imagines Scylla behind him and Charybdis on the other side of the door.


	3. Chapter 3 - Iniuria non excusal iniuriam

**Iniuria non excusat iniuriam - Injustice does not justify injustice.**

"E! I've been waiting and waiting for you. Mummy said you were coming, and I waited with Mrs. Gray from next door, and she said to be patient, but I said my brother is coming, so I jumped up and down and she said I had to sit, but I don't know why I had to sit, because I was excited."

Joycie throws her arms around him and they are thrown backward onto the sofa. Her enthusiasm elicits a grunt and a reluctant smile from Endeavour, yet he has no words. It is the first time he has smiled since his mother was admitted to hospital a month ago. No, he thinks, he hasn't smiled for longer than that.

"E, why aren't you hugging me? How long are you here for? E? E? E?"

Gwen calls from the kitchen. "Dove, what are you on about? Leave the boy alone and have a wash up. It's time for tea. You, too, boy."

Endeavour stands, following Gwen's order, and seven year old Joycie chatters as she slips her hand into his.


	4. 4 Sicut canis qui revertitur ad vomitum

**Proverbs 26:11 - Sicut canis qui revertitur ad vomitum suum sic inprudens qui iterat stultitiam suam - As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly.**

"Well, I'm buggered now. " He falls to the floor, landing with a commotion loud enough to wake all of Lincolnshire.

"Cyril?"

"Gwennie, just a little trip. Don't bother yourself."

"Cyril, you've been gone all hours. It's past 1:00. What's happened?"

Gwen enters the parlor where her husband is lying on the carpet, pissed out of his mind. Her look pierces his ale induced armor as he struggles to dig himself out of the impending hell-storm.

"Nothing, nothing at all. Just lost my footing."

Gwen pauses, taking in the blood on his forehead. "From the pot to the pisshole, more like it." It is then, as she looks Cyril, that she realizes it is much worse than she could have imagined. Her mind processes quickly what she sees. There is blood down his face, black & blues rising near his left eye, torn clothes, vomit. The track. The pub. Our money.

"A promise, that's what you made me. A promise! Now, look at the sight of you. You should look at yourself!" Gwen spouts through anger, masking her fear.

"Oh, Pet, no need for worry," he slurs, "I'll just take myself off to the looooo."

"You're bloody bleedin'! What've ya done?"

"Nothing. Just a bump. Nothing."

"What's that god awful smell?" She walks toward him and realization dawns through the lump of her husband's delusional thoughts.

"Just a bit of sick, that's all." His mind is clearing, and it tells him he should keep quiet, but the ale gives him Dutch courage to continue. "I'll be right as rain by the morning." He tries to lift himself off the floor, but the 10 stone he's added since his last drink six months ago, holds him down.

"Just look atcha." Gwen bends to look in his eyes, and the obvious question follows. "How'd you get home?"

"Well, that's a bit of a story. Too long to tell."

Gwen crosses the room, pulls the curtain back to see an empty spot where the handsome cab usually sits.

"Oh my God." She says, her fear and anxiety rising through the tone of her voice. "Where is it? Where is it? Tell me NOW!"

Cyril leans on an elbow, pushes himself half way up, then waits for his head to stop spinning and pulsing, before using both hands to shove his body upright to lean against the sofa. Gwen looks at him and the complete picture of the mess overwhelms her. She falls more than sits on the sofa above him.

"What are we to do?"

Cyril closes his eyes struggling to right his whirling brain to speak clearly. He only improves slightly, with a telltale slur still haunting his words.

"Nothing, I'll just clean up, and we'll sleep on it."

Gwen looks at him incredulously.

"Sleep on it? Who's going to sleep? You?"

Cyril looks at Gwen, trying to look apologetic but actually looking sheepish and childish. Gwen looks back at him and her direct sobriety is offensive and terrifying to him.

"Well?"

"The cab is at the station. Nothing damaged, they said, just my thick head. Rode back here in a blue and white. No charges, they said. Everything is fine. No judge or jury." Cyril winces and wishes he hadn't added that last part, because Gwen is the court of appeals.

"Last Time. The last. If your foolishness destroys us, you are gone. Joyce stays with me."

"Gwennie, Gwennie, I won't. Not a sip. You can see, with all that's happened, the boy coming to stay, and you not wanting him and me letting you down, well, I had to."

"What? What, what, what? Say it again you blighter. Go on. Go ON! Say it AGAIN!"

At this Cyril breaks down, sobbing, blood making new paths down his face. Pitiful paths.

"Don't, Gwennie. Don't. This time. This one. I'll do anything. Anything. Anything. What do you want? I'll give it to you."

"Want? Want? You're bollocks. You tell me, you bastard. You tell me what you are going to do! Tell me now, or you are GONE!

"Not drink."

"Say it again. Say it again, Say it again, you bastard!"

"Not drink. Ever. Ever, ever, ever."

Gwen interrupts him. "Ever. Enough. Ever. I'd laugh if there was anything funny to laugh about."

Gwen and Cyril look at each other. Pity and pitiful. What else is there? They are here. Nothing can be done now, at this moment.

"You life ruining bastard. Come with me. Let's get you cleaned up."

They walk to the kitchen, Cyril's head hanging, Gwen's lifted high enough to hold both of them up. Again.


	5. Chapter 5 - Caritas patiens

**1 Corintians 13:4 - Caritas patiens est benigna est caritas non emulator non agit puerperal non inflatur.** \- Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

Endeavour looks around the room provided by Gwen. It is stiflingly small with one window and curtains which do not close properly, leaving a slice of moonlight to blind him. He looks at the ceiling to avoid the glare and believes that if he concentrates hard enough he will see only the flaking paint and not his mother's face. Through a film of unshed tears, her face floats unbidden into focus. He sees her outside their rooming house, on her way to the market, waving goodbye, a half hearted attempt to smile projecting sadness and love. The sun loved her ginger curly hair, eyes that changed from blue to green depending on the light, and freckles that showed after a sunny day of running errands without a hat. She was kindness itself, shy, unassuming, sharply intelligent and devoutly Quaker. Life had brought her many hardships, and her devotion kept her depression at bay and her strength focused on their family, consisting of just each other. Cyril had left or been thrown out when he was young, and his only lasting memories of them as husband and wife were the sounds of Cyril begging and his mother pleading. As Endeavour grew older he realized that their marriage was based on Cyril's weakness for drinking and gambling on horses, and his mother's depression and her inability to save his father. "

Constance, his mother, told him he was too smart by far. Right now he wishes she was wrong, because he hears those sounds again outside of his small bedroom prison. He shakes his head because nothing has changed. Cyril enters the house after midnight, clumsily opening the door and falling to the floor. Gwen calls out, asking the same questions his mother used to ask."Cyril, you've been out all hours. Where have you been?" He can hear her desperation and hope that the answers will be different this time. They aren't, and it escalates until the sounds wake Joyce and she screams in fear. Gwen and Cyril do not hear her because this exchange is focused solely on the participants, with no regard for the bystanders.

Endeavour decides he will check on Joycie. He walks to her room, and she opens the door just as he arrives.

"E, what's happening? I'm scared."

He looks into her eyes and knows what she is feeling. He cannot walk away, so he takes her hand, walks her back into her room, and pulls the blankets down for her to get in. "Don't go away, E. I want the sounds to stop." He nods his head and holds up his pointer finger in a gesture for her to wait. Leaving the room door ajar, he returns to his prison room, gathers up a blanket and pillow, and returns to Joycie.

"E, I was so worried you wouldn't come back."

He hears the confusion and fear in her voice as he creates a makeshift place to sleep with the pillow an blanket. He lies down on the hard floor, reaches up, and takes her hand in his, hearing her breath slow and even out as his eyes fill with tears of loss, love, and anger.


	6. Chapter 6 - Verba volant, scripta manent

**Verba volant, scripta manent** \- Spoken words fly away, written words remain.

As November pushes its way through to December, Endeavour falls into the pattern of walking Joycie to school then crossing the street to his. Each day is an exercise in excruciating boredom. The most difficult moments included teachers making grammatical and mathematical mistakes and students stumbling through memorized lines of I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. Refuge was found in the library, where Endeavour would pull The Odyssey from its shelf and read lines 1-18 hearing his mother's voice.

"Endeavour." His mother would say. "Speak, memory."

He would respond "Of the cunning hero,

The wanderer, blown off course time and again

After he plundered Troy's sacred heights."

"Speak."

"Of all the cities he saw, the minds he grasped,

The suffering deep in his heart at sea

As he struggled to survive and bring his men home

But could not save them, hard as he tried—

The fools—destroyed by their own recklessness

When they ate the oxen of Hyperion the Sun,

And that god snuffed out their day of return."

"Of these things,"

"Speak, Immortal One,

And tell the tale once more in our time."

It was their evening ritual. Some nights she would sit on the end of his bed, flipping through the dogeared pages of The Odyssey, delving into the fantastical world of the Gods. Other nights, she would turn out the light, and retire to her room, from which he could hear muffled crying.

He is brought back to present day by giggling teenagers stage whispering behind him, waiting to engage their rapier wit until the lunge - "Endeavour to speak, you bloody git."

"Ah," he thinks, "what a cunning feint. Not even Ares would attack such powerful opponents."

"Well, Mr. Morse. The Odyssey again?" Miss Harper, the librarian, says from behind her desk. He turns and takes in her neat hair, ironed but threadbare dress, and well cared for shoes. It is her kingdom into which he has entered, and he nods his head in respect. "Might I suggest Aristotle or Plato? You may appreciate Greek philosophy." Miss Harper leads him to the philosophy section, and as they pass his classmates tease "Endeavour, what? Endeavour why? Endeavour who?"

"Whom." he thinks. Maybe he could drop Endeavour. That would leave just Morse.

Later that week, just a fortnight before Christmas, he sees Miss Harper completing a cryptic crossword. He wonders how cryptic puzzles work and moves toward her desk to see. 26 Across - Loosely, sand tribe area. She is counting letters on her fingers and frowns. He picks up a pencil and paper and writes "26 Across - Arabiandesert." The librarian smiles broadly and muses "Well, well, Mr. Morse, you need more to occupy your mind. We must begin additional studies. The Sunday Times crossword will be a weekly event, and preparations for Oxford, I think. Perhaps, a Greats Man." Endeavour imagines a life beyond this moment.


	7. Chapter 7-Virgil's Aeneid

**Virgil's Aeneid, Book 2, 19 BC** \- "Do not trust the horse, Trojans. Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks even when they bring gifts."

Christmas has arrived, with its forgiveness, hope, new beginnings, introspection, and depression. Endeavour has continued his routines, and as such, is walking Joycie home from school. As they walk she chatters through the cold gray of December.

"E! Today we made Christmas cards! I made lots! Miss Melo gave us paper and crayons and paper doilies! Paper doilies, E! I made the most beautiful cards, using all the colours, even though every one else used green and red, I used all the colours, blue, green, pink, orange and a lovely colour called periwinkle! Have you ever seen it? Have you, E? It is the loveliest of blues, like the corn flowers, the ones that grow by the edge of the road, just that colour, just like Summer, so Christmas can have the colours of summer!"

As Joycie's words twist and turn, Endeavour looks forward, glancing down to nod when she bursts into the brilliance of periwinkle. They arrive home, and Endeavour goes directly to the room now dubbed "the 8x8". He tosses Virgil's Aeneid on the bed, and a small paper book fastened with brass brads falls on the blanket. The front page reads "Poems. For Joycie". He walks into the kitchen and cuts a small piece of brown paper and jute used to wrap laundry. Cyril never mastered sober driving and gambling abstinence, so Gwen has filled the gap.

"Boy, why are you mucking about with my paper?"

Endeavour shrugs and starts walking back to the 8x8.

"That's our bread and butter, boy. You hear?"

He turns and nods, understanding the delicate balance between Gwen and homelessness and forced alliances. Britain and Russia.

Morning arrives with an exuberant Joycie bounding on the bed and shaking him, exclaiming the arrival of Christmas. "E! Get up! What has Father Christmas brought us?" Endeavour forces himself to roll off the bed and grabs his robe moments before Joycie dislocates his shoulder.

Cyril and Gwen are sitting on the sofa, their faces painted with melancholy smiles, welcoming Joycie and her joy.

"Oooo. Look at what Father Christmas has left!" Gwen sits on the floor in front of the tree decorated with school drawings and bits of hair ribbons. "Here's one for Mummy!" She brings the package to Gwen saying "Open it, Mummy! Open it!

Gwen looks at Cyril, judgment in her eyes, and unwraps the small box.

"Well, Mummy, what is it?"

"Perfume, Dove."

"Really? Can I smell it? Put some on Mummy, you'll smell like flowers!"

Gwen opens the **five and ten** bottle of Galore and barely touches her skin to the stopper, knowing she'll have to wash it off when she goes to the kitchen to make tea.

"Go and get another, Dove."

Joycie trips toward the Christmas tree, and exclaims "Two for E!" She attempts to pick up the larger package, but it is too heavy, so Cyril retrieves and hands it to his son. Endeavour replies with a confused expression and unexpected butterflies flitting about in his stomach.

"Open mine first!" Joycie sneaks around Cyril and lands in Endeavour's lap, holding an enormous card. "I made it all by myself. I used the most beautiful crayons, and lots of periwinkle. Wow, your eyes are periwinkle, just like corn flowers!"

Endeavour takes the card, wishing he could open the present from Cyril before Joycie's, but smiles as he reads the card. "To Endeavour, the bestest." Endeavour smiles, thinking "best" and looking at the rainbows, unicorns, and hearts all drawn on a paper doily. The doily has lumps from too much paste, and lays askew above the signature "Love you! Joycie." He looks down at his sister and she throws her arms around him, landing a peck on his cheek as she goes. Before she jumps up to gather a new parcel, he wraps his arms around her and feels unconditional love. It is too much, and he stands and heads toward the loo.

Upon his return, Cyril and Gwen are admiring Gwen's cards, looking at each other, an expression of hope and fear for Joyce's happiness.

"Son." Cyril says, and Endeavour looks at his father, hoping for the same admiration given freely to Joycie. He places the gift on his lap and begins to untie the jute, his imagination presenting a picture of a family. The paper tears and Cyril and Endeavour begin to smile. Gwen looks on, irritation radiating from each cell in her body. The paper falls away and Endeavour is holding a gun.


	8. Chapter 8 - Virle agitur, virliter agite

**Virile agitur, virliter agite.** _The manly thing is being done, act in a manly way._

Gray. Everything is gray. The sky presses mist and frigid biting air down toward all living things below.

"Make a man." Cyril says as he and Endeavour cut through the backyard to the field, carrying empty old tins of spam and condensed milk. Their breath freezes as soon as it is expelled, mixing with the fog to create an eery smoking den. It is 4:00pm Christmas day and the slight semblance of sunlight is dimming.

Cyril walks to an old fence and lines up the cans like dutiful soldiers all in a row. He turns and walks away, counting twenty steps, stopping as he whispers "twenty". He turns, motioning for Endeavour to stand alongside him. In a split second, Cyril faces the tin soldiers, lines up the shot, and with an ear piercing lighting strike, watches as the bullet slices through the fog slaying an unwitting soldier. The shot and kickback make Endeavour's heart switch into third gear, as he attempts to remain unshaken and aloof. `

"Here, son." Cyril says as he sets the safety and hands the still hot gun to Endeavour. The gun is heavy with its inherent destructive properties, hot and cold in juxtaposition.

"Stand tall and strong. Kickback can be a bloody blighter." Cyril pushes Endeavour to see if his stance is solid. It is not and he stumbles.

"No, no, no. Put a bit of a bend in your knee, boy. Harden yourself to the blast." Endeavour follows suit and withstands the now expected shove.

"Better." Cyril replies. "Arms out. Left hand atop, steady as you go." Endeavour steels his stance, forging a wall between himself and the world and prepares to pull the trigger, but Cyril interrupts. "Hold your horses, boy. Release the safety."

There is a confirming click as the safety is released. Endeavour looks down the barrel, using the sight to align the shot and squeezes. His reflexes kick in, forcing him to remain standing, but in doing so, feels the full force of the barrel as it ricochets off his forehead. Like a feather escaped from a down pillow, Endeavour seemingly floats then slams into the ground.

Cyril reaches his hand out to help Endeavour right himself. Endeavour waits a second for the spinning to subside, then, placing both hands on the ground, pushes and stands on his own.


	9. Chapter 9 - La Musique L'Exprime

**"Ce qu'on ne peut dire et ce qu'on ne peut taire, la musique l'exprime."** _Music expresses that which can not be said and on which it is impossible to be silent - Victor Hugo_

Endeavour moves through the library to the front desk during his lunch break. The day has turned bright, harkening the end of Spring and the beginning of Summer. His classmates could not resist its Earthly call, hence the quiet and solitude of the library. He sees Miss Harper smiling and waving him toward the front desk. She holds in her hand the slip of newsprint cut from the London Times, and it causes him to half smile in return.

"Silent, contemplative Mister Morse. How are you this fine day?" Miss Harper says as she hands him the cryptic crossword.

Endeavour nods recognition of the greeting and holds up a copy of Victor Hugo's Volume 19, Hugo's Works: William Shakespeare.

"Ah, yes. Are you simpatico with Mr. Hugo."

Endeavour raises an eyebrow in response.

"The quote, my dear Mr. Morse. The quote about silence? _Music expresses that which can not be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."_

Endeavour shrugs a shoulder.

"You do not believe in the power of music?"

Endeavour shakes his head "No".

"Well, I see your education is lacking still. Come with me to the recording section of the library." The recording section is dusty, has a faint scent of mildew, and consists of shelves of long playing records and a small glassed in room with a turn table, speakers, and two arm chairs. Miss Harper arrives at the section entitled "Opera" and pulls out an LP with the most extraordinarily beautiful woman on the cover entitled "Rosalind Calloway: Madama Butterfly".

"Be prepared, young Mr. Morse, to hear music expressing that which can not be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."

They enter the room and she reverently rolls the vinyl record out of its sleeve, places on the turn table, turns it on and cleans it with a chambray cloth. With due honor bestowed, she places the needle in the first groove.

The strings enter, announcing the opening, with its string climbing and falling, harkening a story of emotional breadth and depth. Endeavour is dumbfounded by the energy and mounting emotions. Then he hears Rosalind Calloway sing the first notes of Ancora un passo. His body sings in response, feeling each tone as beauty personified.

"My god. My god." Endeavour whispers more than speaks, tears of aesthetic beauty glisten unshed in the corner of his eyes.

Miss Harper cognizant of the importance of this moment, quietly retreats to her desk, hoping that Endeavour has found his voice.

Two hours later Endeavour is reeling from the sorrow, love, loss, and the ending, where the young son of Madama Butterfly must walk away from his mother as she lays dying. He stares at Rosalind Calloway's face, memorizing her aspect, lost in the pangs of first love. And beauty. For the first time, the gray begins to lift.


End file.
